


Boldly

by thestarryknight



Series: A Room Up There (And You In It) [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Antique Bed, Domestic Bliss, Fluff, M/M, New Year's Eve, New Year's Resolutions, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Sentient Magical Houses (Harry Potter), antiques
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:21:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28453053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thestarryknight/pseuds/thestarryknight
Summary: Tucked away in the newly restored bedroom at Potter's Cottage, Draco and Harry set their resolutions for the new year.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: A Room Up There (And You In It) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2084043
Comments: 9
Kudos: 105





	Boldly

**Author's Note:**

> Never did I ever think that I'd be emotionally able to write domestic bliss about NYE, but here we are, 5k in and it's utterly tooth-rotting.
> 
> This is a little New Year's epilogue to A Room Up There (And You In It), my 2020 Advent fic. If you haven't read it yet, you may prefer to do so before you dive into this fic, as there are elements that will be confusing without it. 
> 
> Many thanks to [lastontheboat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lastontheboat/pseuds/lastontheboat) for the excellent beta on this! And to [gryffindorhearts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gryffindorhearts) for first planting this idea, to [onbeinganangel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onbeinganangel) for endless love and encouragement, and to all my lovely Advent readers who asked for a few more answers to the fic's central questions. 
> 
> The title is a reference to the Catullus poem excerpted at the end of Room Up There, #55 ([read the translation in full here](https://www.poetryintranslation.com/PITBR/Latin/Catullus.php#anchor_Toc531846780)).
> 
> Happy New Year, everyone. May 2021 be a bit brighter.

_December 31, 2008 (One Year Later)_

With a steaming cup of tea pressed between his fingers, Draco looked on at the massive four-poster bed, and Harry in it. He was still asleep, as often was the case, lying in only his pants with the heavy blankets over him. Draco had learned that Harry liked to sleep in, to wake with the sun high in the sky and bleeding through their thick curtains. The bed was a gorgeous piece, salvaged from the back of a garbage truck, and had been in need of much love.

Draco stepped up to the edge of the bed and ran a finger down the smooth carving -- flowers curling up vines along a neat arch to the wooden canopy. He thought of Harry lovingly repairing the chipped flowers, neatly sanding the wood until a deep gouge left from the truck had been erased. It was Muggle furniture, to be sure, but at least a century old and certainly not meant for a dump. Unlike a wizard’s woodwork, the flowers did not weave themselves into motion, the heavy oak did not seem to thrum with some inner magic, at least not when they had found it.

But after many hours of restoration work shared between Harry and Draco, it seemed to hum with a new magical life. They had spent ages rubbing a heritage stain color into its deep crevices at Harry’s careful instruction. The flowers had taken on an illusion of movement in the way the light seemed to play over the shades of the stain and the smoothness of the varnish. The magic in the wood was new, and yet the bed never seemed too hard or too soft to sleep in. The temperature never seemed too hot or too cold for either of them, even though Draco and Harry firmly disagreed on what was appropriate. Such things could be done by magic, certainly, to charm the bed into the perfect atmosphere. That wasn’t what Harry had done, though. He had a way of molding the wood with Muggle tools and winding it up into his very heartlines until there was no inch of the wood unmarked by his magic.

Draco stepped over to the bed, sliding carefully beneath the rich red coverlet, under the silky cotton sheets. He sat against the massive, ornate headboard and watched Harry, taking in his shallow breathing, the soft flicker of his eyelashes. It was still a new wonder, a full year later, to get to gaze upon the neat planes of his face. Draco had begun to keep a mental catalogue. His fingers had just the slightest bend to them, as if they never wanted to lay quite straight. His hair, unruly as it was, would behave but for a small cowlick at the back of his head. And his cheeks? Draco ran an incredibly careful hand over the muscles of his right shoulder. Harry usually slept on his back, arms cast out, covering far more of the bed than was his rightful share. Draco didn’t mind.

Harry stirred at the touch, blinking blearily at Draco and curling closer to him, turning onto his right side. Draco smiled as he pressed his forehead, his nose, his stubble-covered cheek against Draco’s thigh. He rested a groggy hand on Draco’s knee, grumbling something into the blankets and his body.

“Wake up,” Draco grumbled lovingly, prodding Harry’s shoulder. “Don’t you know what today is?”

Harry grumbled something again, even more garbled than before. Draco pressed the cup of tea under his nose, brushing aside a lock of shaggy brown hair. He would need a trim again today if he would allow Draco to do it.

“Harry,” Draco drawled, smiling down at him, “You’re drooling on my trousers. I’m going to have to _change_ if you don’t mind yourself.” They were a neat gray pair with careful stitching around the hems, embroidered by hand and woven with Goblin-level strength charms. Not a bit of drool would ever stain them, unless such a fashion became necessary.

“Hmphf,” Harry muttered, pushing himself up with bleary eyes. He took the cup of tea in both hands and drank it quickly.

“That was _mine_ ,” Draco muttered, shaking his head. This was a lie, of course. Draco never took his tea with milk, and Harry never took it without. Draco ran his hand over the neat fabric of the red bedspread, a concession to Harry’s Gryffindorish sensibilities. It _did_ lend the room a certain warmth, though Draco found it eccentric and garishly bright at best, cozy colors be damned.

Draco ran a hand through Harry’s hair, detangling some of the more excitedly messy bits. It was always a mess in the mornings, but so, _so_ soft. Draco relished the feeling of running his hands through it, pressing out the knots with gentle fingers. He loved the sounds Harry made, humming into his fingertips, eyes shut as though there was no greater happiness. Perhaps there wasn’t.

Harry sipped the tea, the fragrant scent filling up the bedroom. There was a gentle morning light, muted by the heavy curtains (installed for Harry’s benefit), and the sound of birds distantly. The nearby church bells at St. Jerome had rung and quieted while Harry slept, and now it felt that the town outside was miles away, silent and still-sleeping.

“Good morning,” Harry murmured, setting the mug down on the coaster on his nightstand. He put his glasses on and blinked at Draco owlishly, smiling sweetly. Draco returned the smile, leaning in for a soft kiss, tasting tea and morning on Harry’s breath.

“You’ve certainly slept in,” Draco harrumphed, no real vitriol in his voice.

“Draco,” Harry rolled his eyes, “It’s barely half nine. That’s _not_ sleeping in.”

“It is when we have things to do,” Draco grumped back, taking his hands from Harry’s hair in recompense.

“Nothing that important,” Harry groaned, trying to tug the blankets back over his bared shoulder.

“Harry--” Draco started, shaking his head. “The to-do list is massive.”

“You’re right,” Harry said, snaking his arms around Draco’s waist and dragging him deeper into the bed with a soft yelp. “We should lie right here and set all of our New Year’s resolutions. While curled up. In this beautiful warm bed.” He patted the pillow beside him, onto which he had practically dumped Draco. “Which we made, and which you love so why don’t you just start touching the headboard or something, and then I’ll have entrapped you.”

“We didn’t _make_ it,” Draco argued for the sake of arguing. He curled down further anyway, wrapping an arm over Harry and pressing his chin against his partner’s neatly muscled shoulder. “I will concede making resolutions to this room instead of at the table. However—” He suddenly pulled back to dig in his own nightstand. “We’ll have to write them down and you will _not_ get ink on my bedspread.”

“ _Your_ bedspread,” Harry muttered, shaking his head and taking the quill from Draco’s hand. To be fair, it _had_ come from Grimmauld with several of Harry’s other things. But it was shared, and Draco was far more defensive of the nice artifacts in the house, so de facto, it was his.

“And you will have to write _legibly,_ ” Draco added, nodding to the page.

Harry put the feathered end of the quill in his mouth, eyeing Draco with a glint. “Legible to you or to me?”

“To _me,_ ” Draco gasped, reaching for the page. “I’ll take the task back if you can’t manage it!” It was fair, as Harry had absolutely awful handwriting, but it was also how they always did it. Harry would sit on the wide couch with his feet up and read crossword clues to Draco, who would be pacing about the room cleaning or looking for something lost or pacing for the sake of doing so. Draco would offer answers to the clues, and Harry would take the dictation. It was good that they rarely revisited the games once complete, since only Harry _might_ be able to make sense of the scratchy black lines.

Harry pulled the quill from between his lips and wrote Draco’s name at the top of the sheet. “Right,” he said, grinning at Draco. “You go first.” He quirked an eyebrow at Draco, waiting. “What’s on your list?”

“Hmm,” Draco tapped a finger against his lips, trying not to be distracted by Harry’s warm expression. “First, I’m going to get that promotion.”

“They’ll have no excuse now,” Harry nodded, “The Harry Potter Museum is a raging success.”

“You know it’s not actually called that,” Draco admonished, rolling his eyes. “And the promotion isn’t _only_ based on that. I didn’t do most of the museum part of it anyways.” But he _had_ spent long enough studying and preparing the notes on Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. He likely could have composed an entire textbook on the house when he had turned his final notes over to Maison and the conservationist team, complete with long inventories and status notes and pages and pages of historical research. It was his first preservation project that was all his own from start to finish and he had done it _well_.

“Deputy Head Preservationist Draco Malfoy,” Harry sing-songed, leaning over to knock his forehead against Draco’s. They paused like that for a moment, breathing each other’s air, hope loud between them. “I like the sound of that,” Harry whispered. Draco plucked the quill from his fingers, holding it aloft as he kissed Harry gently, lips brushing over his.

He sat back, righting the quill and affecting a subtle but pleased smile. “What’s on your list?”

“Encouraging you to longer kisses,” Harry grumbled under his breath, looking only mildly put-out. Draco gave him a long-suffering look. “I’ll finish that desk project,” he said, looking at Draco through his eyelashes. He really was quite stunning, all warm brown skin lit up like gold in the streaming morning sunlight.

“Been long enough,” Draco grumbled, nodding to list. Harry wrote it diligently, forming letters with obvious care. They were _moderately_ legible, at least. The desk was gorgeous, all old oak and perfectly massive. It was going into the study once they finished the rest of the repair work in that room (it had a long way to go yet). It had been Harry’s grandfather’s desk, or so it seemed.

“It’ll get done,” Harry said, pressing the tip of the quill against his lips and leaving a small smudge of ink. Draco tutted, leaning forward to rub it away with his thumb.

“That’s what you’ve been saying for most of the last six months,” he said fondly. “It’ll get done,” he affected Harry’s gruffer accent, shrugging his shoulders as though he were slightly broader in the chest, slightly scruffier in the hair. Harry shoved his arm, but then remedied the action by resting his chin on Draco’s shoulder.

“It _will_ ,” he murmured and Draco nodded, running his hands through Harry’s hair.

“I believe you,” Draco offered back, pressing a kiss to his forehead. He felt inordinately lucky, Harry’s hair tickling his chin, the soft morning light cast over the heavy dresser and closet in the corners of the room, flickering over the paintings on the walls, the mounted photograph of Harry’s parents. Over the little souvenirs that dotted over the shelves.

Harry had installed those after they had fought about him leaving things out everywhere. _If they’re important, they should be kept in that manner_ , Draco had grumbled after the sixth time he’d repositioned Harry’s small wooden horse from Stockholm. Now, the little pine shelves served as a little display of all the places Harry had travelled. There were a few new ones too, a glass suncatcher from their visit to Dublin, a little music box that Draco had found in a tiny antique shop in Paris. Someday, they’d go further. It was easier to travel like Muggles to avoid the Magical border control (they didn’t take kindly to invisible passengers, and Harry hadn’t yet broken his silence). But one day, they would go all across the world.

“I’m going to…” Draco trailed off, considering, “Spend more time with my mother.”

“Your mother?” Harry asked, pensive.

“Well,” Draco hummed, “my father’s a lost cause, most certainly. That much has been clear since I was about this big.” He put a hand out over the edge of the bed, mirthful. “But I might be able to make a difference with her, if I make the effort of talking to her.”

“That’s a hard thing,” Harry nodded, taking another sip of his tea. He chewed the bottom of his lip and Draco raised a hand to brush over it, stopping the habit.

“It’s better than pretending I agree with,” he waved a hand, “all of _that_.” Draco folded his hands back in his lap, that same heaviness settling over his shoulders as it always did. Harry reached over and slid his hand between both of Draco’s, warm and soft and _there_. Their fingers linked together as though they had been cut from the same stone.

“I’m,” Harry started, and then cast his eyes to the ceiling, swallowing hard. He squeezed Draco’s hand. “I’m tired of pretending too.”

Draco stared at him, eyes wide. Could he really be saying what Draco thought he was implying? He started to form a proper sentence, but found that the words were not quite right. Tracing over the back of Harry’s hand with his free one, he watched Harry’s throat bob, waiting patiently. Outside, a morning bird was singing, sweet and crisp in the wintery air. Inside, the warmth of the house seemed to trace over their shared skin, warming the places that they touched with a certain gentle softness.

“In 2009, I’m going to tell the world that I’m alive,” Harry whispered, as if he didn’t want the world to hear him for sure. Draco looked at him in a mixture of surprise and awe. Harry was endlessly brave. “I’m alive,” he said again, more firmly. “I’m alive and not going anywhere. And that’s not going to stop me from living my own life. We’ll do it your way,” he nodded. “Hire a PR guy and all that. I know you must have a plan.”

Smiling too widely to contain it, Draco took the quill. Beneath ‘Finish the Desk’ he inked three words in neat lettering: ‘Tell the World.’ He showed Harry the note, watching as those anxious green eyes traced over the words, mouthing them. Harry looked back up at Draco, and Draco was overcome. He tossed the quill aside and the parchment next, ink smears be damned, and kissed his partner thoroughly.

Harry hummed into his mouth and Draco’s body thrilled at the joy of this man. His hands threaded into Harry’s hair and he pressed their foreheads together, losing himself in Harry. Though he had first fallen for those verdant green eyes with their subtle texture and multiplicity of hues contained in simple irises, he now found himself mad for the the crease at the corner of his eye, the quirk of his lip, the smallest of dimples in his cheek.

“I’m so proud of you.” The words tumbled from Draco’s mouth without thinking. He kissed Harry’s forehead. “I can’t wait for the world to get to meet you all over again. On _your_ terms.”

“Me too,” Harry whispered. He was smiling now, properly, with the words and the weight of them off of his chest. He lay back on the pillows, looking up at the canopy over their bed. This little world they had created, a little oasis inside the greater chaos of the house.

“I love this bed,” Draco said. He looked up, tracing his fingers over the carving on the headboard. Harry had added the flowers here, and they were slightly different from those on the rest of the bed. A more pedantic version of Draco (if such a person existed) would have protested its accuracy, but this one was more easily swayed by green eyes and a hopeful expression. There were roses, and lilies, and two long, sweeping ferns, growing from either side of the headboard to meet near the middle among the other flowers.

“Mm,” Harry said, running his hand over Draco’s arm. “It’s my favorite thing we’ve made so far.”

“Not the whole room?” Draco asked, nodding to the recently patched and painted walls, the refinished hardwood floor. “We spent nearly as long in here as in the bathroom.”

“I didn’t _carve_ the room, did I?” Harry ran his hand along Draco’s bicep, up under the sleeve of his t-shirt. “I’ll be selfish about the things I like best.”

Draco rolled his eyes, fingers still playing over the gentle curve of the fern. “Or self-absorbed,” he muttered. “Can’t go five minutes without talking about your work.”

“You love hearing me talk,” Harry bantered back. He rolled fully onto his side, freeing up a hand to run over Draco’s chest, curl down over his shirt and to the hem, and underneath, seeking skin. “You’ve said--”

“I know what I’ve said--” Draco tried to pre-empt, turning pinker yet.

“--You spent a month not hearing me, so I might as well start making up for it,” Harry finished and kissed Draco’s shoulder. “‘Cept that was a year ago, and I think I’ve more than made up for it.” If Draco were being fair and not greedy, he’d agree. Harry was noisy, almost _too_ noisy. He’d bumble around the kitchen clanging pots together, mutter to himself as he read a book, even when Draco was _trying_ to concentrate, tap his foot or hum without even realizing. If only Draco didn’t find it so entirely endearing.

“Your memory is too good,” Draco grumbled. “We ought to fix that.”

“Never,” Harry said, rolling onto his back. The blankets were tugged down over his hips, leaving him shirtless and all miles of skin. Draco desperately wanted to touch. He had already spent so many hours cataloging the inches of Harry, the corners and crevices and imperfections, but such a catalogue required frequent updating. It was tempting.

“We have things to do today,” he said again, though so reluctantly. He wanted to curl up fully underneath the blankets, wrap himself around Harry and look at him, see all the tiniest of details. He wanted to memorize Harry’s fingerprints, make a list of each of his tiny freckles, sort out where each and every one could be found.

“Tell me the things,” Harry said, meeting his gaze. And how was Draco meant to get anything done when Harry looked at him like _that_? It wasn’t fair. He would have thought that the wonder of Harry’s eyes, green and sparkling, would have worn off. It hadn’t. If anything, Draco’s mental notes on the varieties of Harry’s expressions had only made their charismatic power worse.

“We have to finish cooking the tarts,” he counted on one finger, “And pick up the champagne from Ogden’s.” He pursed his lips, considering. “We _were_ meant to have the downstairs bathroom finished before the first of the year, but _that’s_ not going to happen.”

“We have a perfectly good one up here,” Harry nodded to the wall adjoining to the upstairs restroom. “It can wait.”

Draco hummed in agreement, though he would have _preferred_ they stay on schedule. At this rate, it would take nearly three years to fully restore and renovate Potter’s Cottage. As it was, they had only managed to make a few rooms livable, holding the rest in stasis charms. It was a little ramshackle, a bit of a struggle some days. And they couldn’t host friends, not yet, not without any semblance of a sitting room. One day, though, one day the whole place would be restored to its former glory, magic thrumming through every floorboard, every ceiling tile, every piece of furniture new and old.

The Ministry had never had the chance to fully own the cottage. It had refused to transfer by the terms of Harry’s will “to remain in trust for the next clear Potter descendent, or another whom the wards hold in Trust.” The Ministry had been convinced that Harry had some heir off somewhere, but the wording was ancient, tied to the magics of the Cottage, as they had been since it was constructed sometime in the eleventh century. The building had been re-constructed since then, but the magical framework had remained unmoved. The Ministry had battled for the five years of Harry’s illusionistic death, fighting legal and magical battles to turn the house into a museum, a historic site. Still, the old bones had resisted.

But when Draco had repaired the fence at the Cottage during his visit to Godric’s Hollow, his magic started the beginnings of a contract, weaving into the wood subtly, carefully. And when Harry had agreed to the transfer of the estate, under heavily warded correspondence with Gringotts, well, there was nothing standing in the way. Draco publicly owned the ruined Potter’s Cottage, and privately shared the deed with Harry. They had each poured the magic into it, stabilizing the roof, restoring the wooden beams of the second floor. Each step of repair had taken longer than a month and required stacks and stacks of heavy wood to replace the rotted and curse-damaged frame.

There was still much work to do. Only one bedroom was finished, along with the kitchen and a small bathroom on the second floor, and they had made a solid start on Draco’s study. Each room took days and days of magical therapy, cleaning out debris, restoring the drywall, adding new frameworks to strengthen the walls. And the _decorating_. Draco had never had such fun in his life until the day he and Harry spent painting the bedroom, covering themselves and the walls in a pretty slate gray.

Draco looked over the paint, at the way the whole room seemed lighter and more pleased for it. Houses and their magic liked to feel beautiful, and this house was rapidly becoming such. With every day they spent working on it, adding details of themselves to it, the more alive it became. The more they worked, the more the home felt like family, till it sat warm in his heart as clearly as Harry did.

“You wanted me to get flowers for Molly,” Draco cleared his throat, shaking himself back to his list. “And to stop by that shop in Diagon. You need new trousers, which I was meant to pick up today. I told Maison I’d stop over at Grimmauld and see how the Historical Society opening preparations are going.”

“Fuck it all,” Harry said, tugging Draco’s hand up to his lips. He pressed a kiss over the knuckles. “Stay in bed with me all day.”

“All day?” Draco teased.

“All day,” Harry insisted, pulling him forward by the arm until Draco lay half atop him. “We’ll skip the party and stay here till it’s next year.”

“Skip the annual Weasley New Year’s party?” Draco shook his head, aghast. “You made it through Christmas lunch, didn’t you?”

“Barely,” Harry muttered, running a hand over his face.

Draco shook his head, relishing the warmth of his chest pressed against Harry’s, warm and soft and made to mold against each other. He put his palms on Harry’s chest. “Harry Potter is _nervous_ ,” he said, grinning, “Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Am _not_ ,” Harry insisted, but his eyes were a little too wide, his obvious tell.

Harry had only revealed himself to Molly and the rest of the Weasleys at the very end of the past summer, in the late sun of August, sitting at the table at the Burrow. Draco hadn’t attended, hadn’t been invited of course, but he had heard all about it, heard Harry’s frustration and pain at being misunderstood. They realized it soon enough, and welcomed him back with joy and understanding eventually, but there had been a fraught couple of weeks where Draco was unsure of any way to comfort Harry. He had moved from room to room with no heart, casting to clean dishes, neglecting the broken chair splat he had meant to repair, looking rather like a lost puppy. Draco was relatively certain he’d spent at least half of it back under the cloak, hiding his pain even from Draco.

“You’re nervous,” he said again, with less teasing, “It’s understandable.”

“It’s just _weird_ ,” Harry groused, running a hand through Draco’s hair. Draco met his anxious eyes with an even gaze, trying to impart some of his own calm. “I’m not used to being around so many people.”

“You got used to me, eventually,” Draco offered, arching into the touches in his hair. Harry had such a way of scratching over his scalp, tugging in the right ways to make him shiver at even the subtlest of feelings. Woodworking had made his hands incredibly fine-tuned.

“There’s only one of _you_ ,” Harry said, pressing a kiss to Draco’s nose. “And _seven_ of them, not counting wives and children. It’s going to be _loud_ and busy. And chaotic,” he added. “Can’t forget that. It’s not a Weasley holiday if nothing catches on fire.” He sighed, staring up at the ceiling.

“Seven of me,” Draco pondered, tapping his chin, trying to distract Harry from his worry. “That would certainly be interesting indeed. Think about what I could accomplish.”

“I know it’ll be fine,” Harry continued, entirely stuck in his own head. “They love me. They’ve forgiven me for the whole,” he waved a hand, “lying and hiding out for five years thing -- _half a decade_ , Molly always says.” He sighed heavily. “They’re _family_.”

“They’re the good sort of family,” Draco said quietly, pulling Harry’s hand to his lips. Instead of kissing it, he turned it over, palm up, and began to trace his fingers over the surface of Harry’s skin. “You did what you had to do, my darling ghost.” His fingernail traced over the whorls and ridges of Harry’s pointer finger, drawing out the line in the bend of his knuckle. “Anyone with a working brain can see how the Ministry wanted to...” He shook his head, unsure of the words. “Have their way with you. Parade you about.”

Harry gasped, yanking his hand away as Draco caught a ticklish spot, but reluctantly returned it at Draco’s arched eyebrow. “Fuck them,” he muttered.

“Fuck them,” Draco nodded, and kissed each of the tips of Harry’s fingers, his catalogue complete.

Harry tugged him closer, until Draco was lying fully on his chest, and frowned. “You’re wearing far too many clothes for a lazy morning.” Draco rolled his eyes, but slid the t-shirt off carefully, coming to rest against Harry’s chest. “Much better,” Harry said, running hands over his bare skin. They kissed softly, gently, with the sounds of the birds and the world waking up outside. Lips moving against Harry’s, Draco ran his hands over Harry’s chin, feeling the soft burn of fresh stubble, the subtle heartbeat at his neck, the sharp line of his collarbone.

The man underneath him was a marvel, and enigma, a gorgeous work of art worthy of the greatest museum and yet hidden away from the predatory eyes of the world outside. Inside, Harry could be Harry, all simple lines and soft eyes. Inside, he and Draco could lie for hours, letting the morning sun sneak through the window shades and dance across their naked skin. Inside, Draco could trace every inch of him and make a list of his most favorite parts. He would make that list again and again, every day if Harry would let him.

They were kissing, and Draco’s mind was racing on ahead of them both (as it so often did), tracing over Harry’s skin and the house and the bedroom and back. Cataloguing. Planning. Aching for Harry’s hands, Harry’s lips.

“I think we should install a banister,” Draco murmured, thinking of the steps on the first floor of the house.

“What?” Harry asked, still in the haze of kissing and being kissed, and trying to process how such a thought would follow.

Draco continued to run his hands, his fingernails over Harry’s chest, eliciting goosebumps, “Perhaps not in mahogany, but maple, maybe,” he added, tracing up Harry’s neck. “Something pretty, but simple, of course.” He leaned in to kiss Harry again and Harry blinked in confusion.

“Furniture or kissing, dear, which are we doing?” Harry asked, letting his nose bump against Draco’s.

“Furniture _and_ kissing,” Draco grumped, pressing his lips to Harry’s so gently. “Why can’t the two co-exist?”

“For you, maybe,” Harry answered, wrapping arms around Draco’s biceps. “For me, however,” he trailed off with a mischievous grin, rolling to flip them over so that he was on top. “It seems a challenge to distract you fully.”

“ _As if_ ,” Draco said back, grinning with the thrill of the challenge. “Potter, I will always find beautiful things _at least_ as thrilling as you if not--” he was cut off at the feeling of Harry’s hands scraping down his sides. “If not _more_ ,” he added, a little breathless and arching into Harry’s hands. “You rascal.”

“What’s my name, Draco?” Harry asked, teeth working against his skin in a way that sent shivers down his spine. Harry pulled back, eyebrows raised.

“Harry,” Draco muttered, rolling his eyes, reaching to pull Harry back against him, “Harry, Harry, Harry,” he sing-songed, voice becoming increasingly endeared and less irritable as Harry’s lips worked over his collarbone.

And really, if he was _so_ opposed to Draco comparing him to a solid wood etagere, beautiful and tall, full of beautiful things and beautiful words, or seeing his scars like the wounds of time extant on ancient things, well. Perhaps an ancient home had more in common with their relationship than Draco would like to admit. Perhaps the stability and shared magic that came with the bones of an old house could be found between two old souls, too.

Could Draco really be blamed if Harry didn’t notice that he arched up, putting his hands on the carved wooden bed frame as Harry kissed along his sternum? He held onto it, pressing the flat of his palms into the subtle texture of the fern fronds, letting the wood ground him as Harry’s lips and tongue and hands set to work cataloging _his_ body.

“You inspire me,” Draco murmured, “To great imaginings.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me over at [the-starryknight](the-starryknight.tumblr.com) on Tumblr. Thank you for reading!
> 
> ETA one more Advent fic rec - _[Love All Lovely](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27819175)_ by [SheAlwaysReads](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onereader/pseuds/shealwaysreads) with some absolutely gorgeous visual storytelling and a soft Draco/Harry that will fill your heart with winter warmth.


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